


The Paladins of Altea

by MABranford



Category: Hyakujuuou GoLion | Beast King GoLion, Voltron: Defender of the Universe (1984), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Galra Empire, Gen, Paladins, altea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MABranford/pseuds/MABranford





	1. Chapter 1

 

**Zarkon **

 

  “United” was a strong word. Galra and Altea weren’t “united;” their alliance was shaky at best. But the good King Alfor was optimistic and trusting, nearly to the point of naivety.

  Zarkon thought him a fool. He was practically a child still, only a few years older than Zarkon, too quick to laugh or joke, too friendly with his subjects and servants. He was hardly a king in the Galra’s eyes.

  It had been nearly three years since the war had ended. Daibazaal had yielded to Alfor when he lost – he yielded his land, his troops, his son…

  Zarkon wasn’t yet a man when his father sent him to Alfor’s side. The Altean king had always been kind to him. More than kind, in truth, but Zarkon knew what their arrangement meant. He was insurance, a way to guarantee Daibazaal honoured their treaty, and there were times that it made his blood boil to think that he was simply a pawn in these other men’s game.

  He stood gazing out the window watching the rising sun creep along the town below. It was his fifteenth name day, and he longed for the traditional Galran celebration that he knew he would never have. Today would have been the day that Daibazaal have crowned him his heir and successor, and he would have taken his place at his father’s right hand.

  Zarkon sighed as he realized that he was clenching his fists, and rubbed a hand across his face in the attempt to erase the images his mind was conjuring of feasts and pageantry in his name.

  He had done his best to accept his fate, but all he had managed to do was suffer silently. He had realized that Galra’s loss in the war meant that his father would no longer be called a king, and that he himself would never inherit the throne.

  “You may not be king, but you could sire one.”

  Honerva was sitting up in bed, her hair tumbled loosly around her shoulders.

  The Altean witch was the first to befriend him. Her fascination with the Galra and their use of machinery made her easy to talk to. He slowly had opened up to her over the last year, surprised at her inquisitive and sharp mind, impressed by how quickly she had progressed in her studies. Now she studied directly under the head druid, convinced that Altean magic and Galran tech could be used together to create new wonders the world had only dreamed of.

  She had never masked her ambitions – Zarkon knew that for many years the royal family kept the druids and their counsel close. Honerva got a twinkle in her eye when she talked about aiming to be the one the king and queen trusted the most.

  And that look was on her face now.

  “The queen went to the druids a few days ago,” she continued. “She’s with child. Albegas believes that they’ll have a daughter.”

  Zarkon frowned. “What of it?”

  He knew she was attempting to make him feel better, but now he nearly regretted selfishly lamenting about his situation. She had offered herself to him after, though, and he willingly brought her to his bunk in an attempt to forget his sorrows, even for just an evening.

  It had been his first time.

  Zarkon felt himself stiffen at the sudden thought of their love-making from the night before.

  A sly smile curved up Honerva’s lips.

  “For several generations now, the druids have chosen to whom the heir is betrothed. Once a princess is born, it will only be a matter of time before nobles bring their sons to lick Alfor’s boots, hoping to gain favour. But…if one of the druids should already have a son that the king loves…” Her voiced trailed off and she gave Zarkon a knowing look.

  He was taken aback. “You can’t honestly think that Alfor would marry his daughter to a half-Galran, do you?”

  “Think!” she hissed. “Think like a king! It would ensure the peace between the countries!” She tossed the sheets aside and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to him. “We could be the couple that properly unites Galra and Altea.”

  He stepped closer, allowing her to wrap her arms around his waist. “You become the High Druid, my son becomes the crown prince, and what of me? Where do I stand in all of this?”

  Her hands moved up his back, then down to his buttocks while her lips caressed his stomach. “Join the black knights. You’ve trained with them long enough. Join them and show Alfor that you’re sincere in denouncing the divide between the countries. Become the next Black Paladin.”

  It was true that he trained with the knights shortly after he was moved into the castle, surprisingly at Alfor’s request. And it was true that he had thought about the rank of paladin, but he never thought it more than a child’s fantasy. Honerva made it sound so simple.

  “You’re using me,” he growled.

  But deep down, he wanted it, and he wanted to believe that she could help him make it all happen.

  “That’s a cruel way of putting it, but I suppose that’s how the world works, love,” she murmured as she fondled him.

He gasped as she took him in her mouth. Slowly, he wound his fingers through her hair, and allowed his mind let go of his past, his home. Altea was home, now. Honerva was his future.

  Daibazaal had made mistakes, but Zarkon didn’t have to follow in his footsteps.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Alfor **

At first there was unrest; that was to be expected. Allowing Galran soldiers into his own army was bound to have consequences, but Alfor was patient, and he knew that mutual trust and respect would be needed between the Alteans and their new comrades.

Most didn't seem to have an issue with the few Galra that volunteered to join the ranks. There had already been so many from other lands that had come seeking refuge from the wars, and he believed that not everyone from Galra agreed with Daibazaal's conquest.

But young Zarkon – the son of Daibazaal himself – that was another matter.

Alfor stood on the balcony above the training grounds, watching the Galra in his morning drills. He had been standoffish in the few years he had been living in the castle, and while some warned the king about keeping the former enemy prince so close, Alfor was sure that a friendship could form between the two of them. He just wasn't sure how.

He and Zarkon might have been cut from a different cloth, but he knew the shears that were used were the same. Both had been pulled into their fathers' war too young, and while Alfor had lost his father when King Raimon fell in battle, Zarkon was taken away from his.

Alfor refused to live under the shadow of what his father had done before him, and he hoped that Zarkon was the same.

"He stands out, doesn't he, sire?"

Raible approached the king with a short bow, then followed his gaze downward to the knights, a faint smile on his face.

"He's become quite serious lately," the Black Paladin continued. "He has even asked me to teach him directly."

Alfor raised a brow at the older man. "I heard that you were instructing him personally, now."

"I am."

The king nodded, his mouth drawn tight.

He watched Zarkon parry and lunge, seeing the strength in his stance and blows. He had a feeling that the Galra was in his element, and a part of him twitched with envy. Being a king had not come easy for Alfor. He missed his days among the knights; his burdern was lighter, then, and his friendships fuller. He knew that if he were still part of their ranks approaching Zarkon would have been easier. They had dined together several times, but Alfor still didn't know him. Conversation between them felt forced and without substance, and he knew that their idle chats were nothing like the brotherhoods that battle carved into you. He had lost too many in that war, though. Raible himself was one of his oldest companions, but even he had nearly died in their battle with Daibazaal.

"I'm not going to be able to do this forever..."

Alfor looked to Raible, and for the first time his saw just how old the paladin had become. His once fiery red hair had dulled, and his face was lined and tired.

"What are you getting on about?" the king asked with a chuckle.

"I'd like to train him to replace me," Raible said simply.

Alfor bit his tongue to stop himself from denying the paladin right there. The army was diverse, yes, and even the Red Paladin was not native to Altea. But a Galran prince?

"Why Zarkon?" he asked stiffly. "Why not that quiet one you went on about the other morning?"

"I understand your trepidation, sire, but after spending time with him, I honestly believe that he wishes to be accepted, move on from being Daibazaal's heir, and become something here. You know he's quite smitten with Honerva."

"The druid?" Alfor didn't mask his surprise.

"He's been talking about proposing to her, but he's unaware of many of our traditions. Some of the men have been giving him advice, and if I may be so bold, your majesty," Raible added, "perhaps it's time that you spoke with him."

The young king hung his head. "If only I knew how. Ancients, I hate to say it, but war was easier for me than this." He gestured vaguely around. "I could lead the Red Knights, but Altea? I'm not cut out for all the formalities and pageantry. I try, though, I do."

"Coran has told me, sire. I know. But perhaps when it comes to Zarkon, you're overthinking and playing too hard the part of a ruler. You're not your father. You should lead the way that you feel is right. Instead of acting like king and subject, you should be his comrade in arms." Raible patted Alfor's shoulder with a warm smile. "Go and cross swords with him. Bond over combat like you did with your knights. That suits you more than all the pomp and politics, does it not?"

Alfor's mind raced at the idea. Ever since he had stepped down from being the Red Paladin and taken Raimon's place, the knights treated him differently. He no longer sparred with them in the yards, and the last time he had tried to have a friendly duel, his opponent yielded after two swings.

"That's to be assumed, your majesty," Coran had told him. "No one wants to be responsible for potentially harming the king. Why, the poor fellow would probably rather fall on his own sword than risk cutting you!"

Alfor knew he was right, but the truth stung. He had ceased overseeing their regiments after that, leaving the training strictly to the five paladins. Even so, he would somehow find himself watching them on occasion, pride and jealousy mixing deep in his heart as they practiced. It felt like looking down on his former life, a past that was taken too soon.

He looked at Raible, conflicted, wanting to ask if it was truly something he could dare, but the old paladin nodded knowingly.

That was all that Alfor needed. He left Raible on the balcony and ran down the large stone stairs towards the courtyard. He ran past the kitchens where the cooks were already preparing midday meals. He ran past the fountain where the green knights were gathered with their books and odd parchments. He ran knowing how childish he must look, but for the first time since he donned his father's crown, he didn't care.

Almost breathless, he waved to the Red Paladin as he entered the training grounds.

"Master Akira!"

The Muran bowed looking confused, but happy. "Your majesty. What brings you out here this morning?"

"Would I be able to borrow one of your training blades?"

Akira raised an eyebrow. "Of course, Majesty." He motioned to the knight nearest him and took a blunt blade from his arms.

Alfor took it and swung it a few times before nodding. "The weight is just right for me. I thank you!"

"My pleasure, Majesty."

But Alfor was already crossing the yard to the knot of Black Knights he had seen earlier, ignoring the men and women kneeling and bowing as he passed.

Zarkon was showing one of his peers a stance and slowly shifting his weight so the other knight could follow. Together, they slashed an invisible foe, then gently turned, switching the sword to the other hand to cut again. After a few encouraging words, they did it again, faster, and again, faster still. He's a natural leader, Alfor noted. Raible had to be seeing this on a daily basis if he were serious about training him as a paladin.

He stood by and watched a moment before Blay called out to him.

The Black Knights turned and stood at attention as the Blue Paladin approached the king. Alfor could smell wine on him.

"A little early to be drinking?" he asked.

Blay waved away his question as if shooing a fly. "And to what, pray, do we owe the honour, Majesty? Not every day I get to see you out here."

"I was just speaking with Sir Raible about the training of his knights, actually. I was hoping to see their skill for myself, for a change."

Blay winked. "You're always welcome to come and visit the Blue Knights, as well, Majesty. Not so fancy with a sword, like ya like, but they can put on a nice show with them arrows."

Alfor smiled broadly. "I'd like that very much."

"Then I'd better go tell 'em to take it to the next level!" He laughed loudly and adjusted the bow that was slung over his back. "If'n you'll excuse me then, Majesty."

As Blay swaggered off, Alfor turned back to the knights. "My apologies. I didn't mean to interrupt your warm ups."

One of the women stepped forward and gave a curt nod. "Sire, we are the ones who should apologize. We didn't know that you were coming this morning. We should have made ourselves more presentable."

Alfor nearly laughed. "Hardly. You're in the training yard. It's to be expected that you should all be coated in sweat and grime."

The knight nodded shortly again. Kala was her name, if Alfor remember correctly. A newer recruit, but very skilled. "Sire, were you here to oversee our training with Sir Raible?"

He shook his head and glanced up to the balcony. "Not exactly," he said. "As I told Sir Blay, I've been conversing with Sir Raible, and he seems very pleased with the progress you're all making." He realized he had been fiddling with the hilt of the practice blade and smiled at his juvenile nervousness. "I was hoping that one of you might accept a friendly duel. It's been some time, but I was a paladin myself once, and I'd like to see Raible's training up close."

The knights glanced to one another. Alfor knew that his request would cause them to give pause, but they looked genuinely uncomfortable. He could practically hear Coran scolding him for even approaching them, telling him that this was no longer where he belonged.

His gaze fell on Zarkon who gave him a confident smile.

"If his majesty wants a friendly duel, who am I to deny him?" he said, stepping forward.

One of the knights looked as though she was about to reprimand him, but she instead drew her mouth in a tight line and tossed him a practice sword.

Alfor was grinning from ear to ear as the two took a stance. The black knights backed away a bit, giving them plenty of room.

"His majesty was a soldier, yes?" Zarkon asked.

"I was the Red Paladin after that. I only led the knights for a year, but it was not a title I held lightly."

Zarkon nodded. "Then I should not hold back."

He rushed at Alfor, nearly knocking him off balance.

_He's fast!_ the king thought, racing to block him. He was pleased to see that his body seemed to remember what to do as he shifted his weight to parry.

Zarkon blocked, then spun to aim a kick at Alfor. The king turned closer to him, catching the Galra's leg before it hit. The surprise on Zarkon's face was obvious. Even the crowd of knights let out an audible gasp. Alfor noticed then that more of them had gathered around to watch and he laughed, dropping Zarkon's leg.

"This is a good fight!" he exclaimed, bringing up his sword again. Zarkon smiled in reply, but remained silent. He charged again, putting Alfor on the defensive.

Block. Block. Pivot. Swing. Block.

There was a strange rhythm a fight that Alfor found not unlike dance. There was a grace and beauty to it when done right, and it was easy to lose yourself in the steps.

He was out of practice, though, and he felt it. He didn't want to appear weak and yield – he had no desire to lose, even if it was all in fun. But the idea of simply being beaten wasn't an option, either. He had to disarm Zarkon, and quickly.

"What in the name of the Ancients is going on here?!"

Coran's voice cut through, sharper than an blade, and Alfor froze a moment.

That moment was all it took. He missed blocking an upward strike, and the blow connected with his arm. Alfor gritted his teeth against the pain, and Zarkon immediately dropped his blade. The knights circled around, talking over each other as Coran approached.

"Gods be damned! We were having a match here!" the king hissed.

His steward jogged over, clicking his tongue. "I'm disappointed, sire. What were you thinking?"

Zarkon looked genuinely frightened. "Y-your majesty. I didn't...I mean-"

"No, no, it's fine. I'll be fine." Alfor forced a grin. "It's my fault for letting Coran distract me."

Coran took a step back, dejected. "Apologies, sire, but..." He leaned closer to the king. "It's the queen. I've been looking for you for a while now."

"Is she alright?"

"She's...in a state. Lady Trigel is with her right now."

_The baby..._

"I'll go to her immediately."

Alfor turned to Zarkon and clapped him on the shoulder. "Sir Raible has every right to brag about you, my friend. Perhaps we could spar again sometime."

The Galra smiled uneasily. "Th-thank you, majesty."

"Call me Alfor," he replied. "And the rest of you should get back to your drills. You're all shaping up to be amazing warriors!"


End file.
